


Nudge

by orphan_account, Yotka



Category: Night at the Museum (Movies)
Genre: Al Has A Big Ol’ Heart, Al is In Love™, Cute, Fluff, Fluffy Dream, French, Friendship, Historical Accuracies, Historical Inaccuracies, Italian, M/M, Napoleon Is Over It, Napoleon is Confused™, Requited Unrequited Love, Romantic Friendship, comedic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-10
Updated: 2020-03-20
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:28:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23056261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yotka/pseuds/Yotka
Summary: That damned Capuchin monkey stole the tablet the night before the exhibits of the Museum of Natural History were relocated to the Smithsonian. Thankfully, no evil Ancient Egyptian pharaoh with motives to rule the world inhabits their new home. For once, Larry’s friends will have nothing to worry about.However, that doesn’t mean that the entirety of the Smithsonian’s exhibits coming alive is a good thing. At least, after a bunch of gun-crazy fighting, the Napoleon Bonaparte wax figures and the Al Capone exhibit seem to be getting along.
Relationships: Napoleon Bonaparte/Al Capone (Night at the Museum)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 35





	1. Friends?

**Author's Note:**

> Historically speaking, Napoleon Bonaparte knew little to no English though he was fluent in Italian and, of course, French and Corsican. 
> 
> Also, the comedic nature of the movie is a factor to the story, even though it’s a little ridiculous. And the guns that the French soldiers and the American mobsters have actually work and can shoot real bullets — just to make things more interesting!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They get along easier than expected.

To be honest, Al was surprised as anybody would be to awaken in a glass case. Not to mention his confusingly gray complexion. Mere minutes after he awoke, he used his gun to smash the glass confinement, bits and shards flying everywhere, and stepped out.

Where the hell was he? 

All around, other people seemed to be waking up, too. Strange-looking people. People that didn’t make sense. He had to blink a couple of times at the frolicking statues and the tropical animals and the portrait paintings who were moving around inside their little canvases. 

“What the hell kinda dream is this?” 

Thankfully, his buddies were close by. They also happened to be gray — “Why’re we all gray? Nobody else is!” — which made Al feel better. At least he wasn’t the only one; he hated being the odd one out.

Al and his men quickly got to work. They asked around, threatening any poor soul daring enough to come near their posse. They intimidated bobbleheads and stone cherubs for information — for anything that would make a lick of sense. It proved to be a fruitless endeavor. Nobody knew anything. Most couldn’t speak English or seemed to be at a loss at the sight of the group of thuggish gray men in suits.

Never before had Al never been so appreciative to interrogate a bust of Teddy Roosevelt. The man — could he even call him a man? — was certainly no walk in the park but he at least had answers, or, at least, theories.

“We’re in a museum,” Teddy told them, eyeing their legs jealousy. “Everyone here is an exhibit.”

“That’s crazy,” one of Al’s men spat. “That makes no sense!”

The others agreed.

“How d‘ya know we’re exhibits in a museum?” Al pressed. “Who told ya? D’ya have somethin’ to do wit’ all o’ this?”

“Nobody _told_ me. It’s obvious. Or perhaps you really are that thick-headed. How else could you explain all of this? I’m a talking bust of Teddy Roosevelt, for God’s sake! Didn’t you see those paintings, those statues? How do you explain that, tough guy?”

“So we’re all exhibits at a museum? And, what? We magically came alive? Is that it?”

“Do you have a better explanation, Mr. Capone?”

Even Al’s goons had to agree with Teddy. It did make _a lot_ of sense. However, Al had one more question.

“And what ‘bout me?” he asked, almost shyly, like he wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer.

“And what of you?”

“We’re all exhibits, right? So I’m a part o’ the museum. I’m a historical person that people learn ‘bout, right? I’m important.”

“I suppose you must be. I can’t say I’ve heard of you. May I ask what year you were born?”

Al looked at each of his men. _Should I really tell this guy?_ They all looked at each other. _Sure. Why not?_

“1899,” he replied.

“Ah. I passed in 1919. You were only twenty. You probably hadn’t done anything of historical significance in my lifetime, now, would you?” explained Teddy. “I apologize, my boy. If you want to know about yourself, then I’d find someone from a later decade.”

Al stared at Teddy a moment before turning to leave. “Let’s get outta here, guys.”

“Yes, please do,” Teddy muttered as they left. “Rotten bunch of men, if I’ve ever seen one…”

Al and his men, now knowing the drawstrings of their situation a little better, decided to go find some trouble. In a museum as vast as the Smithsonian, there was bound to be something — or someone — they could mess around with. Besides, what else would they do in a museum? 

* * *

The French turned out to be an easier target than most. They looked like they were from the 1700s, dressed in those ridiculous blue and white uniforms of fancy-pancy soldiers. Al would never give them the satisfaction of saying that they were formidable opponents but, goddamn, those Frenchies had some olden-day vigor in their souls.

It had started out with a particularly confident member of Al’s gang, trying to show off to his buddies, walking up to one of the soldiers and shoving him, saying something along the lines of his clothes being stupid. A dumb joke. The Frenchmen seemed not to understand English but could understand a rude comment when they heard one. They were furious. 

One might say that, from there, things escalated out of proportion. Al disagreed. In his book, it was just the right amount of escalation! 

That is, until he got shot. 

The French and the mobsters were currently locked in a vicious battle. At one end of the hall, the French knelt behind a bend, only peeking out to shoot at the mobsters with their muskets. The mobsters did the same from behind an upturned couch — stolen from some kind of television-viewing area. A few men had already been injured but thankfully none had fallen. 

The bullet had embedded itself into his chest, just high enough to not hit anything important. Why would it make a difference? A bullet is a bullet and it still hurt like hell. Al toppled backwards. The vision of their leader falling over seemed to fuel some kind of deep-rooted loyalty inside their bones because, as soon as they heard Al hiss “Goddamnit!” in pain, they lost their marbles and charged the Frenchmen.

The Frenchmen, seeing a band of angry gray men coming for them, got the same idea and charged the mobsters.

The clash was fierce. It might’ve gone on for hours if a museum exhibit who had been watching the entire battle didn’t speak up in a way that commanded attention. Both the French and the mobsters turned to face this interrupter in a nearly comedic fashion, mid-fighting. They stood so still that it looked like someone had taken a photo.

“Why are you fighting?” asked the person. She was old and wore a sweater with the words _Peace Pilgrim_ sewed on; she was definitely more modern than any of them. “What is the reason for this?”

The men looked at each other, at a loss.

“Uh, well…” one spoke up. “There’s really nothin’ else to do ‘round here.”

“Yes,” a heavily-accented Frenchman agreed. “Nothing to do.”

“Well, that’s not very smart now, is it? What, are you all a bunch of brutes who do nothing else but fight? There has to be more than this. We’re in a _museum_.”

Al couldn’t believe what he was hearing. The Frenchmen and Al’s goons _stopped_ the fight so some old granny could fill their heads with pacifist bull! And, what’s worse, they were all listening to her like she was some wise elder!

As much as he’d like to put an end to this foolishness and resume the battle, Al made the mistake of looking down to find blood on the hand that he’d been pressurizing the wound with. Oh… He suddenly began to feel very woozy. The room spun a thousand miles a minute and suddenly he couldn’t tell which way was up. Slowly, gradually, his vision faded… 

Al woke up for the second time that night. However, instead of being trapped inside of a glass case, he was lying on the floor, all alone. As he sat up, a few drops of blood stained where he had been laying. It took a lot of courage and willpower but he managed to jam two fingers into the wound and retrieve the damned bullet. He threw the blood-stained pebble across the room.

“Where the hell did my men go?” he muttered.

 _Well, no time for mopin’._ Al got to his feet. He walked across the hallway. Nobody. A few exhibits passed by, looking lost, but he did not recognize any of them. 

He walked around the bend that the Frenchies had been shooting their muskets from. A man was laying on the floor. The curled-up, face-down body of a soldier. A _French_ soldier. And not just any soldier — this was a commanding officer!

“Their general,” he breathed.

Al clasped his hands together in an evil manner; he crouched down to examine the corpse — er, _man_.

“Are ya dead?” he murmured.

He couldn’t see the man’s face; his body laid prostrate, his back to the ceiling and his stomach to the floor. Dark short hair, perhaps black or a very deep shade of brown, matted the back of his head. His uniform was much like other Frenchmen except it was more blue and stylized to the different, more extravagant degree of a higher-up. Aristocratic prick.

Al let his own hand make its way to the man’s shoulder. He poked it as if it would explode. 

Nothing happened. 

He did this a few more times until he was sure that the man was fast asleep. He certainly wasn’t dead — the gentle rise and fall of his back was apparent. Very gentle, in fact… 

For some odd reason, there was something serene about that moment. Al felt like he was seeing a magical creature for the first time. 

_Pah!_ he thought. _A Frenchie is quite the opposite!_

Nonetheless, Al grabbed the man’s shoulder and lightly pushed. The body rolled onto its back, chin pointed towards the ceiling and arms splayed out on either side of him.

“Huh.” 

He was older. Older than Al by a decade or two. And, come to think of it, a little short. On the pudgy side. Definitely French — he had one of those distinctively Western European faces. 

Al breathed. The man’s face had paled from losing quite a bit of blood; his left thigh had been shot. Blood could be seen through his white breeches — nothing serious. The general’s dark eyelashes gracefully contrasted against his skin in an almost womanly manner.

His stomach suddenly lurched. The man was pretty, Al would give him that. Oddly pretty. For an old guy. But still… _pretty_.

 _You’re staring,_ he reminded himself. _Stop being weird._

“Let’s see,” Al muttered, eyes fixed on the body before him like it was somehow special. “What should ol’ Al do with a lil’ guy like yourself?”

_Take his weapons, you idiot! If he wakes up, you’re gonna be in big trouble! Better yet, why not eliminate the threat and just kill him? You could shoot him right now._

Al only half-listened to the little voice of reason inside his head. A bit awkwardly, he searched the man’s clothing, padding him down until he found the bulge of two old pistols and a well-crafted knife strapped to the left boot. A dark hue crept onto his cheeks as he lightly padded the man’s chest, earning a soft whimper from deep within his throat. He even stirred a little. 

All the while, Al’s eyes locked onto the man’s. He briefly wondered what color eyes he might have — brown or blue? And would they be dark brown, light brown? Dark blue, light blue? And what of his voice? There would definitely be a French accent, but would it be high or deep? Clear or nasally, wise or irritating?

Al watched the slow rising and falling of the man’s chest for longer than he would like to admit, deep in thought. Should he wake him? Shoot him? 

He glanced down at his lips. Wouldn’t it be rich if he kissed him! It was obviously a joke, he told himself. But he kind of wanted to. He wasn’t sure why; it was one of those weird urges that people get, he supposed. Laying there like that, all peaceful and pretty — how could someone not think about it? The prospect that a live human being could gaze down at this man and not allow those thoughts to course through themselves was blasphemy in every sense of the word.

Then again… 

“Curse it.”

He drew his pistol from its holster and placed the muzzle against the man’s cheek. He sat like that. Contemplative. Desperately trying to pull the trigger. He’d done this hundreds of times before! When did it become so difficult? 

_Why are you hesitating!_

Al harshly poked the man’s cheek with the pistol’s muzzle. Nothing happened, not even a slight movement. He did this repeatedly until finally, the man’s eyelids twitched. His hands absently moved to his face, as if to swat away a fly that was buzzing around. Eyebrows furrowed, nose scrunched. Sleepily displeased with the world. 

Al was not prepared for what happened next. The air had been knocked out of him. He could only stare. 

The man’s eyes were brown. Dark brown, almost black. They didn’t look around, didn’t take in the surroundings, the high ceiling, the endless hallways, the paintings lining the walls, the strange-looking passerby — the man’s eyes instead locked onto Al’s, staring at him with such… such… oh, he couldn’t put it into words. 

The general’s expression was so blank, so emotionless yet Al could discern something more. Confusion, fear, anxiety, _intrigue_. 

_Wishful thinkin’, Al. He’s scared._ Yer _scarin’ him, ya big creep._

The man’s eyes widened. He seemed to come to his senses and, as quick as a speeding bullet, sat up. Surprised and feeling threatened by such fast movement, Al stumbled backwards.

_“Qui êtes vous?”_

Al’s heart fell a million miles below his boots. His body froze. His entire frame went as rigid as a pole. 

He stood up; Al followed suit. Without a response, the man repeated his query. _“Qui êtes vous?”_

For some reason, Al could not utter a damn word. Why couldn’t he speak? He could only stare at the general like the biggest idiot in the world!

The Frenchman finally took in his surroundings, making sure to keep Al in his peripheral vision. Al could hear the man's heart quicken, his pulse raging at the memory of their situation, their stupid battle.

He looked back at Al, eyes narrowed. _“Tu es mon ennemi…”_

 _Ennemi…_ enemy. At least the French word for _enemy_ was relatively similar to the English one. 

The general tried to draw his pistol but was surprised to find it nowhere to be found. He eyed Al with annoyance and knelt down to retrieve his knife, which was also nowhere to be found. This _really_ frustrated him. Al would’ve enjoyed getting under his skin in such a way if he wasn’t feeling so… _weird_ at the moment. 

_“Donne moi mon couteau!”_ he shrieked. 

Al was sure that the general would strangle him on the spot if he weren’t holding a gun. 

Slowly, Al lowered his own gun to the floor, near his feet; he also lowered the weapons he had confiscated from the general. Al then put his palms out in front of himself, as if trying to calm down a wild animal that might attack at any moment. He made his voice as soothing as possible. 

“I won’t hurt ya,” he said in English. “I ain’t gonna hurt ya. D’ya understand? D’ya understand me? Yer _fine_. Really. I wouldn't do that.”

The general was unsure. He stood there, waiting, like Al might pick up the gun and shoot him dead. 

“My name is Al.” He pointed at his own chest. “Al. _Al._ ”

“Al,” the man repeated. His accent washed over the name in a nearly comedic way though the suspicion remained. 

At least this seemed to calm the man’s nerves a little bit. Men don’t normally ask for the other’s name before killing them; the sharing of names is, if anything, a small peace treaty between two parties. Leaders like themselves knew this better than anyone.

“And you?” He pointed to the man. “What’s your name?”

“ _Euh_ … Napoleon. _Je m’appelle_ Napoleon.”

“Napoleon.” He smiled. “That sounds familiar. I think I learned ‘bout ya in school.”

Napoleon only stared, uncertain. He appeared to understand that Al’s statement was of a friendly, pleasant tone. Confusion continued to seep from his countenance. Al could imagine his thoughts: _Is this a trick? What’s going on? What’s his motive? How can I get out of this?_

Al, having nothing better to say to this man, decided to try Italian. He seriously doubted that he knew any, but it was worth a shot: 

_“Il tuo nome è molto bello,”_ he said. (Your name is beautiful.)

Napoleon was at a loss. 

_“Bene grazie.”_ he awkwardly replied. (Well, thank you.)

Now it was Al’s turn to be at a loss: Napoleon’s Italian was perfect! Oh, man, this would not be an easy pash to get over, would it?

 _“Tu… tu parli italiano?”_ he stuttered. (You… you speak Italian?)

 _“Sì.”_ (Yes.)

 _This_ was a dramatic turn of events. For once in his life, Al had no idea what to say or do. Neither, it seemed, did Napoleon.

 _“Questo è strano,”_ Al announced. (This is weird.)

 _“Sono d'accordo.”_ (I agree.)

“Where did ya learn? Yer very good…” Al said in Italian.

“I will be asking the questions, if you do not mind.”

_An arrogant Frenchie, isn’t he?_

Al took pity and decided to humor the wounded man. That’s what he told himself, anyway. “Sure, ask me anythin’.”

“Alright.” Napoleon gathered his thoughts. “Where am I?”

_“Un museo.”_

“A museum? Where is this museum? What country am I in?”

“Beats me. A lot of the exhibits here speak a lot of different languages ‘n come from a lot of times in history. I think we’re in the future.”

“That explains a lot,” said Napoleon. “But it still does not make sense. Why is everything in this museum alive?”

“I ain’t sure. I’ve asked around ‘n nobody else knows, either. One guy thinks that we’re all museum exhibits that have magically come alive; frankly, I ain’t buyin’ it.”

“But why is everything so strange? I have never seen such things in my life…”

“You're from the past. I think I remember learnin’ ‘bout ya in history class. This is the _modern_ world. It’s even after my time.”

“And when was ‘your time?’”

“Well, I was born in 1899.”

 _“1899?”_ Napoleon was blown away. “That is crazy! I…”

“Yeah, yeah,” he dismissed. “So…”

Napoleon stared at him, expectant.

Al held out a hand. “Friends?”

He looked to Al’s outstretched arm for a moment, stalling. Al immediately perceived it as confusion.

“What? Don’tcha know how to shake hands?” he said, smiling. “Oh, don’tcha Frenchies kiss each other or somethin’? I ain’t doin’ _that_.”

Napoleon laughed. It nearly made Al jump in surprise but he found that he quickly came to enjoy Napoleon’s laughter. It was cute. The general used his hand to hide his face. Al was nothing but endeared by it.

“No, no, I know what a handshake is,” he chuckled. “We do not have to kiss each other.”

“Good.”

They shook hands, both grips firm, and smiled at each other fondly. All the while, Al tried not to fall over at the thrill of touching him. This was a start of a friendship between two formidable forces — they could feel it. Some more than others.

“Let’s go find our men, yeah?”

“Let’s.”


	2. Alright?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Al and Napoleon find themselves in a less-than-ideal prisoners' situation. Arguments, name-calling, and apologizing ensue.

Al was awakened by a gentle hand. It pushed at his shoulder, the way an unsure and timid person might, repeatedly, though Al knew it was just out of laziness. A body shuffled closer underneath the blankets. A single word slid out from a low place within Napoleon’s throat, through the warm air and into Al’s ear.

_“Salut.”_

Before he could begin to guess the word’s meaning, lips were moving against his ear, only stopping to nibble at the lobe. An energetic tingling sensation fizzed. He relished this treatment to the point that he considered playing dead, just to prolong it.

He thought better of it. 

“Mm?” His voice was hoarse from sleep.

The room was pitch black. He managed to open his eyes, squinting at the ceiling, his nose scrunching. Waking up at this hour was no easy task; waking up your _body_ was an even worse labor. The body next to him sharply exhaled. Suddenly, Al felt much warmer than before; under the sheets, Napoleon snuggled closer to him. Lips innocently ghosted across his neck; the covers, as if pulled by an invisible force, slipped from Al’s shoulders, down to his torso, and a hand lazily placed itself upon his bare chest. 

_“Je ne peux pas dormir.”_

“I don’t speak French,” Al replied in Italian. 

_“Non riesco a dormire”_ comes the correction.

“You can’t sleep?” 

“No.”

Pity immediately befell Al’s heart. The absence of energy, the lack of tiredness, the anxiousness in Napoleon’s tone — all of it was apparent. Al didn’t even need to see him. The darkness in the room was far too impenetrable, anyway; he couldn’t see his own hand if it stood an inch from his nose. He could sense the hyperactivity within Napoleon. All wrapped up together in bed, Al felt the man’s leg periodically twitch. 

“How long have you been up?”

“I don’t know. Half an hour.”

Napoleon’s fingers absently played with the skin of Al’s chest, pinching and tapping and poking. Al understood. Behavior such as this was not unfamiliar to him.

He cleared his throat. “Well, nobody should be awake and alone on a fine night such as this.” His voice became as animated and lively as his sleepiness would allow him to. “Especially a gentleman like yourself.”

He rolled onto his side and enveloped Napoleon into a big hug. Their bodies pressed together like the north and south poles of a magnet. Despite how annoyed he was, it felt nice to bear the warmth of Napoleon’s jaw against his shoulder, to hear their hearts beating closely together, to inhale whatever the hell Napoleon applied to smell so great. 

Being able to run his fingers through Napoleon’s dark hair was never an opportunity that Al would take for granted, either. His fingers combed the messy bedhead, his palm pressed into the scalp.

“Al.”

A dog… he could pet him like a shaggy little puppy dog all day and never grow bored… 

_“Al.”_

Honestly, it was such an… 

“Al, will you listen to me?”

It was then that Al _actually_ awakened. The splendid land of imagination tossed him from its puffy clouds and wondrous skies and beautiful lands, where he fell right back into the jaws of reality. He blinked a couple of times. He tasted blood. _What’s going on?_

Al assessed the situation at hand: He and Napoleon were sitting inside a darkened room — a singular ray of light peaked through a crack in the wooden box, perhaps a large crate, that they were enclosed in. He sighed an overstressed sigh. Their strange predicament inside this mysterious museum that supposedly brought its exhibits to life kept on getting weirder and weirder.

No cuddle time, no bedroom romantics, no gentle words. Al groaned — he had been lost in his own head again, hadn’t he? Inappropriate images plummeted, though they remained. Neatly tucked into a pocket of his brain. For later.

“Don’t ignore me!”

Oh, he almost forgot.

Dumbly, Al looked down at his new friend — who was _just_ a friend, for the record. 

Finally getting some kind of acknowledgment, Napoleon snapped, “Were you even listening to me?” 

Nervousness washed over Al like a house-flattening, land-crushing tsunami that shook his very bones. His heart fizzed. Uncertainty bubbled deep inside his belly. He cringed, preparing to burst like a balloon. His body quit functioning — he couldn’t even manage to form words for an uncomfortable amount of time. All the while, Napoleon looked up at him, expectant, if not a little weirded out. 

Oh, no, no! This was getting weird! Al had woken up only a minute ago — Napoleon could just blame his unresponsiveness on that, couldn’t he? Couldn’t he? Wouldn’t he? He better be, damnit!

With a stupid lopsided grin that hopefully covered up the embarrassing things he had just been dreaming of, Al said, “No, not really.”

“I must’ve been shaking you for hours! How is it that you can sleep soundly at a time like this!”

“How is it that you can be an annoying little midget at a time like this!”

Napoleon was incredulous. _“Imbroglione!”_

“Oh, yeah, go on with the name-calling! Some high and mighty general you are!”

“I am more high and mighty than you’ll ever be! And what can you say of yourself? You are an exhibit in a museum and I don’t even know who you are!”

“I already explained that to you! You’re from the damn past, or are you too dumb to understand?”

“ _I_ am the dumb one? You talk like a poor man! Your Italian is so strange and low class! It is so low class that I can hardly understand you most of the time!”

“Well, guess what, hot-shot? No one can understand you either! You talk like you were born a thousand years ago!”

“You are a dirty poor man!”

“You’re an aristocratic little _mammalucco_!”

After that, they didn’t say anything for a while. The room’s atmosphere went from malevolent shouting to complete silence. Uncomfortable silence. They averted their gazes to the other side of the room, unable to do any further distancing due to the cramped space they were currently in. Their legs were folded in front of them, knees hugging their chests; they fiddled with their fingers, thumbs, clothes. Awkwardly.

Al didn’t want to be on bad terms with Napoleon but damn, the guy could be such a prick when he fancied it. No matter. It was apparent that this “silent treatment” that they had going on wasn’t helping either of their situations. They’d agreed to be friends, hadn’t they? And, as much as that word — _friends_ — stung, Al had to come to terms with it one way or another.

“What were you saying, anyway?”

Even though he wasn’t looking at him, he could feel Napoleon roll his eyes. “You obviously don’t care enough to even hear what I say, so why bother?” He sounded defeated; tired, even.

“My lord,” Al breathed. “You‘re insufferable.”

“ _I_ am the insufferable one? _Me?_ ”

“That’s what I said.”

“You are the one who was not listening.”

 _Breath, Alphonse. You can do this._ “Where are we?”

“If you were listening, you would know.”

“My Lord, do you ever give up? Did you start your period in the last three seconds?” Napoleon made a face. “Alright, I’m sorry.” 

“I am unconvinced.”

“I mean it. Really. I’m sorry — really, I am. Alright?”

Napoleon glared at Al. Then something, though there was only a sliver of light cast upon his features, that laid deep inside of Napoleon’s dark eyes changed. In a gentle sort of way, in a way that was nice and pleasant. Soft. Something inside of the widely renowned little general had softened. From a solid, resistant outer shell to the delicious slimy yolk inside… 

For a moment, Al couldn’t breathe. _He had a change of heart. Whether it’s from pity or politeness or necessity, it’s still… it’s still kinda sweet…_

“We have been captured and it’s all your fault.”

Now Al really couldn’t breathe.

“What? What’d I do? I didn’t…”

He hated the quizzical look Napoleon gave him, especially underneath that ray of light. It looked so damn ominous… They really needed to get out of here, wherever _here_ was.

“What is the last thing you remember, Al?” he asked.

He didn’t speak at first, deep in thought. “Well, we were walking through the paintings exhibits… and then there were these… these people with swords and axes and shields. They wore tattered armor and animal hides and spoke a weird language. And then they started harassing us, and it was all really confusing ‘cause we didn’t understand them and I don’t think they could understand us, and…”

“And?”

“And that’s all I’ve got.”

“You do not remember what you did,” said Napoleon, “or why you did it?”

That last questioned piqued Al’s interest. The way Napoleon said it, slower and suggestive and curious, gave Al a very funny feeling. Oh, no — what idiotic thing did he do this time? Was it weird? He was now increasingly aware of the lack of appropriate space between the two of them and the box or crate or whatever the hell they were inside of seemed to be getting smaller and smaller by the second and he needed out right now because Napoleon probably thought he was such a pervert!

“No, I don’t” was all that Al could bring himself to say.

“Hmm. It’s understandable. You received a very nasty blow to the head, you know. You were knocked out. I wouldn’t expect you to remember much.”

Napoleon wasn’t telling him something. He had a keen eye for when people withheld information from him and this was definitely one of those times. 

“So, what happened? Why’d they hit me?” he asked. “And why’re we here? Did they put us here? How’s all of this my fault?”

“Well, perhaps I was exaggerating. It was not _your_ fault. We were both quite… a pain for those Vikings.”

Al ignored the inflamed feeling in his chest. “Vikings?” he squeaked.

“Yes, yes. That is what I think, anyway. They are the Nordic Vikings exhibits at this museum. While you were… asleep, I spoke to their leader. He knew English. Apparently he had dealings with the English in… Oh, nevermind. The point is, they don’t like us,” he explained. “Because of you. They don’t take too kindly to outsiders who mess with their people.”

“But they messed with us first!”

“They also don’t like how you are gray. They think it is evil, supernatural. Like a monster.”

“I can’t help it! We didn’t have colored cameras in my time!” He rubbed his face with both hands, humiliated. “I’m a freak…”

“I don’t think so. I like it. It’s charming.”

Al didn’t remove his hands, not because he was still feeling embarrassed but because of the darkish heat that had crept up his cheeks. Hopefully, it was not too noticeable; his gray complexion made it impossible to discern reddish blush. He wouldn’t be able to live it down if Napoleon saw it for what it was. “Thanks,” he muttered.

“Anyway, when they were harassing us, one of them tipped my hat off. They threw it around like a ball to play with. I wasn’t happy but I wasn’t about to challenge these six foot tall hulks of muscle, but you weren’t having it. You got in their faces. A shieldmaiden punched you square in the ear and you fell to the floor, unconscious.”

 _That explains the ringing._ “And what’d you do?”

“I stood there, watching it all happen. A little awkwardly, actually. That’s when they really got angry and hauled me off to one of the crates in the storage facility below the museum. They dragged you, too.”

“Dragged me?”

Napoleon winced. “The shieldmaiden carried you over her shoulder.”

He desperately wished Napoleon hadn’t seen him so vulnerable and helpless. In fact, he desperately wished no one would ever see him so vulnerable and helpless. Especially Napoleon. Oh, well. It wasn’t exactly making their situations any better by worrying over such stupid, invariable things.

“So they locked us in a crate,” Al mused. “Are they guarding the outside?”

“No, they don’t care about us enough to do that. We’re not real threats, just nuisances,” he explained. “And they didn’t lock us in here. They just dropped a bunch of heavy stuff on the top and walked away, laughing.”

“And the top is the only opening?”

_“Sì.”_

“Alright. How strong do you reckon this crate is? I could bust us out of here if…” The words died in his mouth. None of them spoke for a moment, listening to the outside. “Wait, what’s that?”

Al dragged himself to the tiny crack and peered through it. A much needed moment of adjusting his eyes to the blaring lights passed before he could properly discern what was going on. The person was too close to the crate; all he could see were shoes.

“What do you see?” he whispered.

“Shoes.”

“Vikings?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“We should call for help, then.”

“Hold on, we don’t know if this guy’s a friend or foe. Do you really want to take that chance?”

Napoleon was done with Al’s obsession with doing things himself and being the bigger man — he just wanted out of this damn crate. Who cared if Al was skeptical? It wasn’t like they were _real_ friends. He didn’t need Al’s permission to do anything.

“Hey, in here!” Napoleon shouted in Italian. “Hey! Hey! We need help!”


	3. Why?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Larry and Amelia make their cameos. More disagreements ensue. Al shoots his shot and fails miserably but, fortunately for him, all hope is not lost in more ways than one.

“Will you shut up!” Al hissed, but it was already too late. 

The shoes turned on their heels in the direction of the crate. If there were no barrier between them, Al could easily extend his arm and touch the toe box of the leathery brown boots. Behind these boots, he could also see black dress shoes, alerted by Napoleon’s cries for help.

A woman’s voice — formidable, cheerful, and distinctly American — spoke up.

“Who’s in there?”

“Amelia, we have to get back upstairs. I’ve already got enough to deal with already. We can’t have even more exhibits running around.”

“Oh, don’t speak such a taradiddle, Mr. Daley. What harm could it possibly do to help our new friends out of their little jimmy-jam?”

Poor Napoleon did not understand a word of English. He looked at Al, helplessly. Who in their right mind could say no to such a face?

 _You’re lucky I like you,_ he thought.

“No, ya don’t understand! We ain’t supposed to be in here!” Al explained in English. “A horde o’ Vikings trapped us! I’m an exhibit in the upper museum; I ain’t supposed to be in storage!”

This convinced the one who wore the dress shoes, who quickly made his way to the crate and lifted the heavy piles of stuff off of the top. Finally, the lid was torn off and light showered the two men. They were helped out of the crate by the man and the woman. 

“Woah, you’ve got quite the monochrome groove, sir!” the woman exclaimed. She held out her hand, to which both Napoleon and Al shook. “Amelia Earhart, at your service!”

Her friend, whose name was apparently Mr. Daley, got right down to business. He struck Al as an unlikeable fellow. “Who are you guys?”

“I’m Al,” he said. Mr. Daley and Amelia just stared. “Al Capone. And this is Napoleon… uh, Napoleon Bonaparte. He doesn’t speak English.”

Mr. Daley had no time to be shocked, though it was obvious that he knew who they were. Amelia only seemed to know who Napoleon was; Al was ticked off in more ways than one.

“We’ve had our fair share of run-ins with the Vikings,” Mr. Daley explained. “Have you guys seen a Capuchin monkey anywhere? Or a golden tablet? It’d really help us out if you did.”

“Can’t say that we have.”

“Well, alright. You and your friend should get back to your exhibits or wherever. Daylight’s in four hours.”

“Have ya seen a group of guys that look like me, gray-skinned and wearing suits? Or a bunch o’ French guys dressed like him?” He gestured to Napoleon. “We can’t find ‘em anywhere.”

“I don’t know about the French,” Amelia piped up, “but we did see some gray lollygaggers hanging around the war exhibits. They were fooling with the firearms. We quizzed them about the tablet and they were as bumfuzzled as you!”

Larry looked as if he wanted to strangle her just so he could put a stop to her odd choice of words. “Sorry, but we have to go. Oh, and whatever you do, don’t go outside.” He grabbed Amelia’s arm and they zipped off.

She called over her shoulder. “ _Au revoir_ , boys!”

 _“Au revoir,”_ Napoleon murmured, surprised to hear words that he understood. He then looked up to Al. “What did they say?” he asked in Italian.

“That they’re looking for a Capuchin monkey with a golden tablet. And they said that we should go back to our exhibits. Also, we apparently shouldn’t go outside.”

“Why not?”

“ _Non lo so_ , Napoleon. I don’t know. They were really vague.”

“A Capuchin monkey… golden tablet…?” He was at a loss. “They’re probably exhibits as well, crazed and deluded by their past lives.”

“So you believe that this is an actual museum that brings its exhibits to life?”

“I suppose so. It’s the only theory that makes sense.”

“Hmm. Well, I asked them about our men. The girl said my guys were hanging around the war exhibits.”

“And mine?”

“She didn’t know.” His gaze dropped to his shoes. “Sorry.”

“We should look for the war exhibits, then.”

“Sure.”

Two hours passed and no such luck. The museum was simply too big and they were only two people. Thankfully, when they crossed paths with the man and the woman again, they appeared to have found their little monkey and its golden tablet.

And, apparently, all of the inhabitants of the Smithsonian were going to die.

“What!” Al exclaimed, incredulous when Mr. Daley broke the news. _“Die?”_

“The tablet is what made you come alive in the first place. The only reason you’re alive is because Dexter stole the tablet from the Museum of Natural History and brought it here. I’m sorry, but that’s the way it is.”

Al told Napoleon. He was just as shocked and stared at Mr. Daley in disbelief.

“You have two hours until sunrise. Good luck.”

***

Never again would he get such a chance. The night sky dazzled them with its stars and planets and comets and a spectacular moon. A balcony was one of the most romantic places in the world, especially when it housed two people standing beside each other.

After they had to come to terms with the news, Al didn’t want to search for his men anymore. It was futile. He’d rather be up here. They had found a nice balcony that overlooked the city and the sky. He was nervous.

Napoleon was right there, _right there_. 

“We’re going to die anyway,” Al said, mostly to himself but loud enough for Napoleon to hear and assume that the comment was directed at him.

“We are apparently already dead,” he replied. “We are only returning to death.”

“Since we only have an hour to live, what would you like to do?” Al looked at him. “What’s one thing you’ve always wanted to do?”

“I don’t know. We’re in a museum from the future; there’s a limited amount of things I could do.” Napoleon thought for a moment. “I like being here with you. It’s nice. You’re a good friend, Al.”

They were staring at each other now. Al’s legs turned to jelly. They were on a balcony, alone, at night, standing side by side, looking into each other’s eyes, awaiting death within an hour or two, talking about how much they liked being here with each other. It was all there — every single thing in the history of wooing and flirting and romancing.

Napoleon was right there. _Right there_. 

The question was: Did Al have the courage to lean over and kiss him?

Napoleon’s lips were as sweet as they looked. Thin, pink, satisfying. Losing yourself had never been so simple; Al felt as if he were on another planet, another realm of existence where everything was perfect and right and wonderful. He deepened the kiss, hands clutching either side of Napoleon’s face, pulling the other as close as possible with the uncontrollable urge to never let go. Tangs of candies and sugars and tropical drinks flew across his taste buds like the swirling vortex of a cotton candy machine. He inhaled Napoleon’s scent, a druggie in desperate need of their next fix. 

As extraordinary as it was, Al had to pull away. The kiss was nonconsensual. It was wrong of him. To force the burdens of infatuation onto another person who did not share those burdens was low, even for Al. It was time to face it; Napoleon was uninterested.

Al pulled away. A boundary had been overstepped that should’ve been uncrossable. The reaction he saw before him was already predicted: Blank-faced, though obviously out of awe and shock. It gave Al a great deal of shame. His gray hands, which now felt clammy, contrasted against Napoleon’s skin, still grasping either side of his face as if Al expected his flesh to be as adjustable as Play-Doh. 

Napoleon was not angry. If anything, he looked sad, pained, confused, hardly able to form words. “You…”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t — I didn’t mean to do that. I…” he stammered. “I should go.”

“Why me?”

Al looked back at him. He had never wanted to disappear so much in his life. The question didn’t register in his mind; he was unresponsive.

“Why do you like me in such a way? I do not understand,” Napoleon pressed.

“I don’t really know. I guess we’re all waiting, against all odds, all the negatives and the cons, for something extraordinary to happen to us,” he said. “And that extraordinary thing just happened to be you. I’m not really sure why.”

He didn’t turn his head to see Napoleon’s expression — he just couldn’t — though he could certainly tell that the other was looking at him. The courage within him had depleted long before this conversation. He was hopeful for kind eyes, a quiet understanding — at this unfortunate moment, a pleasant turndown was all he dreamt of. Among other things. But those things were too extraordinary. This was reality.

Finally, he couldn’t take it anymore. He found watery eyes staring right back at his own.

“I’m sorry.”

“What for?” said Al, though he already knew.

“I…” He averted his gaze. “I just can’t.”

 _I swear to God, if you cry!_ “It’s alright. I was expecting this, really. Nowhere did I picture us _actually_ …” He paused. “You know. I can’t even think of a good reason why. I should’ve never. It was dumb.”

Napoleon chuckled sadly. “Extraordinarily dumb.”

“Yeah. It really was.”

***

Al went and found a reclusive, uninhabited space within the storage facility and laid down to die. Okay, he didn’t actually die, but he felt like he was dying. Never did he say that he wasn’t a drama queen when things didn’t go his way.

He had been humiliated. Rightfully so, but it still hurt.

Napoleon found him a while later. None of them were sure how much time they had left; it hardly mattered. Nonetheless, as much as Al wanted to shy away from the man, he remained where he was and greeted him with a shriveled _“Ciao.”_

From then on, Napoleon made small talk with him. He was smoking a cigarette. Al couldn’t imagine where he possibly got one in a children’s museum. Possibly one of the exhibits. It was quite fitting for a Frenchie to be smoking, taking purposeful drags, though Napoleon was currently speaking Italian. Along with the smoking, Napoleon’s whole demeanor had morphed from the last time Al had seen him; from stiff and strict to comfortable and easygoing. Even his posture was more relaxed. Al blamed it on the cigarettes; they really calmed a man down.

“We don’t have a lot of time left,” said Napoleon, a little too casually. “May I sit next to you?”

“By all means.”

Napoleon plopped down next to him and continued taking drags. He offered it to Al, who accepted. What else would calm his nerves? Anyway, who wanted to be anxious before they died? His stomach flipped over; he didn’t know how long they had left.

“I thought about it, you know.”

“About what?”

“Us.” He said this slyly, as if there was some hidden meaning that Al wasn’t deciphering.

“Us?”

“Yeah. I do like you, now that I’ve had some time to think. And smoke. You’re not very nice and kind of a pain but I think you’re quite handsome.”

“I’m flattered.”

“And you’re funny.”

Contrary to his tone, Al’s heart thumped away in his chest. His blood fizzed. He was sure if Napoleon said another word he’d explode.

“Thanks.”

“What, are you being shy now?” Napoleon grinned, catlike. “Shall I take initiative now that you’re all burnt out?”

“What do you —”

And then they were kissing again. This time, however, Al was not the one who leaned in; Napoleon had “taken initiative,” so to speak. What’s worse, he was practically sitting on Al’s lap now. He put his hands on either of Napoleon’s sides to balance him, though that only encouraged him to deepen the kiss, and as much as Al wanted this and as sweet as it tasted, he just couldn’t do this right now.

_He pities you, Alphonse. He likes you — he likes you in every single way but the way you want him to. The way you need him to. And you hate yourself for it._

How did he allow himself to get into this mess in the first place?

Al pulled away. “Don’t do this to me. Please.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s not true!” he snapped. “None of it! You — you don’t actually feel the same! You just feel bad for me!”

“I…”

“ _Stai zitto!_ Shut up! Just shut up!”

“Al, what has gotten into you? I am trying to…”

“If this is real and you feel the same way I feel about you, then say it.”

“Al…”

“Say it.”

Shame bit into Napoleon’s reddened cheeks. Eyes downcast, he removed himself from Al and shuffled backwards, sitting there. Awkwardly.

“Just go. You’ve done enough to me —”

“I don’t understand.”

Al was caught off guard. His eyes flickered up to analyze Napoleon, his features, his body, his entirety, searching. For what, he was unsure. Something along the lines of foolish wishfulness.

“What don’t you understand?”

Napoleon met his gaze fiercely. “You. Everything about you. You… you say that you like me. You tell me everything. Everything. You even kiss me,” he said disdainfully. “And then, when I try to recuperate it, you turn me away and tell me that I pity you, that it’s not real.”

“Napoleon, you don’t —”

“Don’t tell me what I feel. You ask me to say that I actually like you; you are angered when I cannot respond. Al, I don’t think _you_ understand. All this time, I didn’t know you liked me in that way. When I found out, I was surprised. I had never thought of you in such a way.” Self-consciously, he met Al’s gaze. “I’m intrigued. I like it. I want to… you know,” he said, a little bashfully, “try this out. I don’t have a lot of time to do it, either. But you cannot immediately ask me what I feel for you and then deem it false. I do not know what I feel for you. I like you, I know that. I just don’t yet know how much.”

Napoleon went on, confidently. “I want to like you more, Al. I want to like you in the way that you like me. Only if you let me, that is.”

_Only if you let me…_

“Alright,” he finally assented, exhaling all of the air he didn’t know he had been holding. “I guess I was being a bit… I don’t know. I’ll… I’ll let you.” For the first time in what felt like forever, Al cracked a smile, small though it was, that seemed to lift his entire face. “Come here.”

The third time around, they finally got it right: both kissed each other passionately, the same amount of effort and energy put into it. Once more, Al grabbed Napoleon’s sides and hoisted him fully onto his lap, thighs on either side of Al’s torso. He made sure to avoid the wound.

“Hey guys — woah.”

The two men looked up to find Mr. Daley peeking out from behind the door that Napoleon had failed to lock. Goddamnit. Now Al’s last moments on Earth were soiled by this washed-up night guard.

“I, um…” he said, averting his gaze. “I’ve been looking for you guys. I just thought I should tell you: We’ve made an executive decision to stay at the Smithsonian. With the tablet. Y’know, the paperwork would’ve been sky high if I had returned our guys to the Museum of Natural History.” He awkwardly met their eyes. “I guess that’s good news for you two, then.”

“Daley,” Al said, in English, from behind Napoleon, who was very much on top of him, “I appreciate it but get the hell out of here.”

“Will do.” Mr. Daley’s head immediately disappeared, happy to leave such a situation, and the door closed just as fast.

Al translated the conversation into Italian for Napoleon. They looked at each other and smiled.


End file.
